


THE KINDNESS OF THE TYRANT

by Mikkeneko



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Custom Hawke, Dragon Age Holiday Cheer, Gift Exchange, Gift Fic, M/M, Tiny Hawke, there ain't no party like a Hawke party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5495477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke is throwing a party, and everyone's invited. Literally everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	THE KINDNESS OF THE TYRANT

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the Handers Secret Satinalia event as a gift for losebetter, who requested "bonding over food - whether bigger satinalia feasts thrown at hawke's estate with everyone milling around, or quiet breakfasts shared in front of a little clinic fire on cold mornings." The Hawke in this story is losebetter's custom Hawke, [Circinus Hawke aka 'tinyhawke.'](http://losebetter.tumblr.com/post/131373648546/its-finally-dooone-o-ive-been-struggling-to)

The clinic was filled with patients, stone walls echoing with the sound of voices, interspersed with racking coughs. Harvestmere had been unusually cold this year, and the Ferelden population was undergoing a low-level outbreak of colds and flu. It was a frustration to Anders, because as much as he wanted to help, ran himself to the bone trying to help, there was a limit to how much he could actually  _do._  Too many of his patients were suffering from years of malnutrition, dirty air and water, and cold weather unrelieved by proper shelter or insulation. He could drive pneumonia from lungs, bring down dangerous fevers and ease strangling swelling on throats, but there was no magic spell or herbal potion that could cure poverty.

He did what he could; several large metal braziers set at intervals around his clinic provided warmth, and there was a big heavy cast iron pot bubbling away in a corner with medicinal soup. It had taken Anders a while to hit on a winning formula; so chock full of vitamins and nutrients that a single mouthful would go a long way to strengthening a person's constitution, but so vilely bitter that only the most desperately starving patients would want more than that single dose.

But it had been a cold Harvestmere, and Firstfall was likely to be just as bad; the Free Marches were farther north than Ferelden and warmer, but that didn't mean they  _never_   got seasons of snow or ice, and it was looking to be just such a year. Anders missed snow, but he didn't look forward to seeing it fall in Kirkwall.

A stir at the clinic doors caught Anders' attention; he looked up from his alembic to see the Ferelden toughs that had been lurking menacingly by the doorways draw aside. From this angle he couldn't see -- yet -- just what (or who) they were reacting to, but he thought he could guess.

Hawke stepped in through the doors of his clinic, a small, slight, spritely figure that moved with such energy and grace that people couldn't help but react to it. Varric followed behind, the dwarf only a foot shorter than his friend and yet even with all his stocky solidity, he trailed in Hawke's wake. It was entirely unconscious on his part -- he didn't  _mean_   to intimidate people into giving way before him, like the waves parting before the bow of a ship -- but his aura of charisma and authority was such that people couldn't help but react to it.

Besides, there was not a person in Darktown who didn't know who Hawke was; his small stature combined with those unmistakable tattoos attached to a reputation that was as heroic as it was intimidating. Short size or no, Circinus Hawke could have cleared the toughs out of his way with a casual wave of force magic from his hand; he didn't, because he didn't need to. People gave way before him willingly.

"Hawke," Anders greeted him warmly, standing up straight and reaching for a cloth to wipe his hands on. He reached for a smile and found one not too far to summon, warmed by Hawke's presence in a way that none of the braziers could manage. "Varric. What can I do for you?"

"Don't worry, nothing's on fire," Varric assured him with an easy smile. "Just thought we'd stop by to see our favorite healer."

Hawke stepped lightly into the clinic, his eyes moving around the room as he took in the crowds of people, huddling around the braziers or doubled over on the cots, coughing. His eye fell on the bundle of herbs that Anders had been working with. "Are you in the middle of something right now, Anders?" he asked, concerned.

"Nothing important," Anders said. That wasn't quite true; he'd been preparing a batch of embrium, yarrow and peppermint to decoct into a tea to pass around the clinic, to those suffering from fevers. But Hawke took priority; ever since Leandra's death, still raw after only a few months, Anders was determined to be there for him, whatever he needed. Unless someone was actively dying, or actively trying to kill them, Hawke came first. "It can wait."

"Well, I… just wanted to ask… do you have any plans for Satinalia yet?" Hawke asked, fidgeting uncomfortably with the grip of his staff.

Anders grimaced. "Probably right here, doing this exact same thing," he said. "It would be nice if death and pestilence took time off for the holidays, but unfortunately they don't."

"Oh," Hawke said; his voice was neutral and his expression blank, but his slender shoulders slumped with disappointment.

"What about you?" Anders asked, trying to get past the disappointment. "Going to party it up in the Hanged Man again this year, like old times?" For the past four years -- ever since Anders had known him -- Hawke had celebrated the annum in the Lowtown tavern, inviting all their motley band of misfits.

"Well, not exactly..." The fidgeting had returned, doubled. Hawke began to wander about the clinic, looking in on every brazier and pot.

Anders let him, knowing his boyfriend's particular ways. "Oh?" he said encouragingly.

Hawke made two more circuits around the clinic before he blurted out, "Did you know that in Hightown, the nobles plan their parties months in advance? Sometimes years!"

"Really?" Anders snorted in disbelief. "How long can it take to plan a party?"

"He's not kidding," Varric observed. "Commissions for the decorations go out as early as Summerday, and the special orders get shipped in from all over the Free Marches. It's killing time for the Merchant's Guild." He chuckled, rubbing his chin as he shot Hawke an appraising look. "But I can't see you planning one of those fancy gigs, Hawke."

"Well, no..." Hawke muttered.

Anders frowned. "What's this about?" he asked, looking from Hawke to Varric and back again.

Hawke took a deep breath. "I was going through my backlog of mail," he began, "and I found a stack of letters from the Confectioner's Guild... "

Anders blinked. "Kirkwall has a Confectioner's Guild?"

"Oh yeah. Best in the Free Marches," Varric assured them. "Absolutely vicious when it comes to import taxes, though; don't mess with them unless you want to wake up to a marzipan horse's head in your bed."

The conversation stopped there for a moment as they all briefly contemplated this vision, then Hawke forged on. "Anyway, apparently… Mother had really been planning ahead this year. She had an enormous party planned! Decorations, food, even an orchestra... All the orders went out months ago. I - I guess after she died, nobody knew to cancel the orders. And now it's too late." The corners of his mouth turned down.

"You could still write to them and cancel," Varric pointed out.

"I could, but..." Hawke sighed. "It was the last thing Mother wanted. And I'd hate to waste all the craftsmen's hard work. But at the same time, the absolute last thing in the world I want to spend Satinalia doing is mincing around with some of those Hightown frills pretending like nothing's wrong." The stutter left Hawke's voice, forced out by rough anger for a moment before his expression cleared. He shrugged. "So instead of sending out invitations to all the noble houses, I thought I'd just invite everyone."

"The whole gang up at the Amell estate, eh?" Varric murmured.

Anders sighed. "Hawke, I appreciate the thought, honestly I do. It sounds like a marvelous time." It sounded like a fantasy too good to be true, really; up in Hawke's grand,  _weatherproof_  house, spending Satinalia tucked up with his boyfriend. "But I just can't leave my patients."

"No, no, you don't understand." Hawke waved his arms vigorously. "I mean  _everyone_. All your patients."

"All my --" Anders repeated in disbelief. "Hawke, at this point I treat most of Darktown!"

"Yes, yes, that's what I mean," Hawke agreed eagerly, nodding. "All the Ferelden refugees. All the homeless. Everyone."

" ...Hawke, I --" Left momentarily speechless, Anders fumbled for a reply.  "That's a lovely idea, it really is, but you can't just..."

"Why not?" Hawke's chin took on a stubborn set. "Mother's party plans were for a hundred guests; I've run the numbers, and I can bump that up to a hundred and fifty, easy. More if they don't mind rubbing elbows."

Varric cleared his throat. "I think what Blondie is trying to say is, a whole gaggle of vagrants up in Hightown?" He shook his head. "The nobles will shit themselves."

"Yes, I know. But I don't  _care,"_  Hawke said forcefully. "I never wanted to be a noble, I just wanted to provide for my family. But now I am one, and why shouldn't I get to decide what that means?

"Besides, isn't that what Satinalia is supposed to be about? The town fool crowned king for a day, turning the social order upside down? The other nobles can suck it up for one night. They don't need another party, they don't need the food, they don't need shelter for the night." Hawke looked around the clinic, at the groups of shivering and coughing bodies. "The people of Darktown do."

He looked at Anders with wide, earnest eyes. "Will you spread the word, Anders?" he pleaded. "Your patients trust you. They don't trust me. I'm not really one of them any more."

Anders thought that Hawke underestimated the reputation he still had among the Fereldens, but Hawke's speech had rendered him momentarily stunned. All he could do was nod agreement. "Of course."

"And... you'll be there?" Hawke said hopefully.

"Well, since you've conveniently arranged for all my patients to be in Hightown that night... I guess I don't have a choice, do I?" He smiled.

Hawke perked up immediately, a smile lighting his face and shining in his eyes. "Great!" he enthused, before turning an eye to their other companion. "What about you, Varric? Do you have any Satinalia plans?"

"Nah, Satinalia isn't really my thing," Varric said with a shrug. "I figure I'll probably hole up in my room with a good book, polish Bianca, maybe get some Antivan takeout."

"Oh," Hawke said, looking crestfallen. Anders felt moved to intervene.  
  
"What, really?" Anders teased Varric. "You'll follow Hawke down sewers, spider-infested caverns, and the Deep Roads, but one little party and you beg off?"  
  
"It's not like that," Varric protested while Hawke sputtered behind him. "It's just that in my line of work I get exposed to all sorts of Satinalia fever for months on end. It's enough to burn a dwarf out, you know? I just… another night of…"   
  
Hawke stood there making such concentrated pleading eyes that Varric's protests trailed off to a low grumble. The dwarf sighed. "Oh, all right, Hawke, just for you," he grumbled.  
  
"Yay!" Hawke cheered, and Anders smiled.

 

\---

 

Dusk arrived quickly on the appointed day, and the Amell Estate was transformed. The doors were flung open, spilling light and warmth out onto the street -- but there was no danger of running out of either. Every fireplace in the building was lit, roaring with heavy logs, and every wall and available surface was laden with candles and lanterns. Between the multiple hearths, the hundred tiny flames, and the mass of warm bodies packed into the stone walls, they'd had to leave the door open to avoid the danger of _over_ heating.

 Shining glass was everywhere; every brace of candles was in its own glass holder, and there were gas lamp-bubbles of all sorts of shapes and sizes. A few were cast of colored glass, turning the light that spilled from them into bright colors: red, orange, pink and green. Cut branches of evergreen draped the walls, woven into wreaths or strung into long garlands with bright red and gold ribbons, studded with bright red berries and tiny star-shaped white flowers.

 The symbol of Satinalia, at least in Chantry controlled lands, was the evergreen bough; supposedly, it symbolized Andraste's unending life at the side of the Maker. All but the poorest of households managed to procure at least one branch or bough of _some_ species of evergreen for the house -- pine, fir, cedar, spruce and juniper -- even if, by the time it passed through a long chain of enterprising merchants importing them from colder regions, they could only manage a rather small and sickly sprig to mount over the door. For the Amells, there was no skimping; Leandra had purchased a handsome, still-living fir to mount in the main hall, in addition to the yards and yards of evergreen foliage that plastered the walls. The grand tree nearly groaned with the weight of decorations; candles in colored glass bubbles, sugarcanes in fanciful shapes, and streamers of white cloth draping over the branches and piled in heaps on the ground below, filling in for snowdrifts rarely seen this far to the north.

 The Confectioner's Guild had contributed more than their weight; an amazingly colorful and intricately detailed array of tiny animals, stylized snowflakes, and terribly out-of-season flowers all sculpted from marzipan sugar graced the tables, shelves and mantles. Dozens of tables had been laid out in rows in the main hall, covered with dark green and red cloths, and at the center of each one was an artful arrangement of live-oak leaves, sugar flowers, and a miniature serene Andraste holding a flame in her tiny hands.

 Few of the guests had much attention to spare for the centerpieces, however, when the tables practically bowed under the weight of food laden onto them. Every table had pitchers of ale, beer, and bottles of eggnog for the children. The caterers had monopolized the Amell kitchens since the morning and still needed to bring in their own deep, covered dishes of foods already prepared.

 The guests were encouraged to take plates and knives and wander the tables, helping themselves to whole turkeys, chickens, ducks and geese baked in their own skins; to sliced ham sparkling with brown sugar crust, steaming roast druffalo, and pork chops in beds of mushroom soup. There were dishes of nuts roasted with herbs, sweet potatoes cut into thin rashers and fried until they curled, roast beets, and even scalloped turnips in cheese sauce. Several platters gleamed yellow with cut cheeses and sliced pineapples, while silver platters were heaped high with round, uncut pyramids of apples, oranges and pears.

 The enticing aroma of the food wafting off the tables mixed with sharp pine sap from the cut boughs, the warm smell of woodsmoke from the burning logs, and the sooty taste of candles and oils to create a heady atmosphere of celebration. It was just as well the ceilings in the Amell estate were high, so that none of the smoke or the press of bodies concentrated too thickly near the floor.

 They had come up from Darktown in knots and gaggles, small groups of families or larger groups huddling together for confidence in the unfamiliar streets of Hightown. As night fell the temperature dropped, and fine sleet began to rain down on the stone pavement; but the light and noise of the celebration drew them in, and Hawke was there in the open doorways, arms wide to beckon them in and a beaming smile on his face making the delicate tracery of flowers bloom.

 Once inside they had looked around with a daunted awe, but it hadn't taken them as long to regain their confidence as Anders had feared; by now the benches and chairs were filled by Darktowners, dugging into the offered food with gusto. The elderfolk or injured sat in more comfortable chairs closer to the walls, and had plates and mugs brought to them by their families; the children, driven to near-hysteria by delight, had abandoned the tables after the first few bites of food had been bolted in order to race around the hall and gape at all the bright, glittering decorations.

 Aveline was not in attendance -- she had been invited, but declined, citing a need to be on duty on Satinalia so that some of her guards who had children at home could spend it with their families. But all of the other misfits in Hawke's usual gang were there, somewhere. Anders spotted Fenris perusing the drinks table, ears low, probably grumpy over the lack of a wine which could be thrown at the walls. Merrill was, perhaps predictably, entranced by the living tree and the arrangements of greenery; at the moment she was petting one of the garlands with an entranced expression, causing it to grow visibly greener and longer as he watched. Varric, true to his word, had put in an appearance -- he was comfortably installed in one of Hawke's low divans before the fireplace, and was enthralling a crowd of Undercity gutternsipes with a storyteller's cadence and expansive gestures. He couldn't see Isabela from here, but he knew she was around somewhere; knowing Isabela, probably in the kitchen spiking the drinks with rum. Anders resolved to keep a wary eye on any glasses of eggnog he was offered over the course of the evening.

 He and Hawke stood together on the second-floor landing, looking over the balcony at the party below. The hum of happy voices rose up to greet them, mixed with strains of music from the promised orchestra on the platform underneath them. Periodically, one or both of them would make the rounds -- Anders to check on the sicker guests by the walls, Hawke to greet new guests coming in through the door. But they would each return to their post before too long, leaning comfortably against the balcony and each other.

 Hawke had a mug of eggnog in his hand; Anders was toying with a shiny green apple. "Where did you get fresh fruit at this time of year? he asked.

 "Imported from Rivain," Hawke replied. "Almost more expensive than the rest of the food combined. That's one of the reasons I didn't want to cancel -- it would have been a crying shame to ship it all this way and then let it rot in a warehouse."

 "It's a nice touch," Anders said appreciatively. "A lot of Darktowners suffer from scurvy or rickets. This will help."

 Hawke nodded. "I hoped it would," he said. "That's why I didn't have the caterers slice any of it. That way they can take it with them, and hopefully they'll keep a little longer."

 They lapsed into a comfortable silence, Hawke taking a sip of the sweet drink in his hand as they watched the party below. The guests were warming up, becoming more comfortable; Anders caught the strains of heavy Ferelden accents from below, where a group of raggedly-dressed men were importuning the orchestra to play Andraste's Mabari. So far, at least, the players were ignoring them, but Anders was willing to bet by the end of the night they'd change their (heh!) tune.

 Nor was the orchestra the only entertainment Leandra had engaged for the evening; there was also a clown, dressed as the Fool King, circulating among the crowds. He wore a bizarre outfit that combined humble peasant dress with the most ridiculous excesses of upper-class fashion, and his performance was an artful mix of noble affectations with dockworker crassness. Anders suspected that his usual routine for these events put more emphasis on mocking the rustic ignorance of the peasantry, rather than the other way around -- but he was a professional enough performer to read his audience and change his show accordingly. A group of children followed him around as he moved from table to table, occasionally picking up fruit or dishes to use as props in a routine that left the adults roaring with laughter.

 Anders knew the children of Undercity well; while he and a couple other Darktown regulars made efforts to provide for and protect them, he did not make the mistake of thinking them sweet or innocent. They were skittish, skinny, savvy little street rats, few of whom would scruple about stabbing a man for his purse or at least stealing his shoes as he lay drunk in an alley. They had to be that way in order to survive, and most of them had grown up too young, oftentimes having to provide for siblings younger than themselves or older relatives crippled by illness, injury or grief. Yet here they were, gawping at the colorful displays of light and greenery like apprentices facing their first lesson on elemental magic; hanging on Varric's words as though each one was a treasure, following around the Fool King like a flock of ducklings. As though, just for one night, they could truly be the children they had never been allowed to be.  
  
"You have to realize that a lot of these shiny things are probably going to disappear into pockets before the end of the night," Anders mentioned to Hawke in an undertone. He hated to say it, it felt almost like a betrayal of his fellow Darktowners, but it was the plain truth.  
  
"That's fine," Hawke said with a hum. "There's nothing out here that I would really mind losing, and what else would I do with it all tomorrow? Pack it away in boxes to never see the light of day again? If it helps brighten their day a little bit later on, or can bring them a few coppers to put food on the table, then I don't mind. Besides, isn't the point of Satinalia supposed to be giving gifts?"  
  
"Hawke... thank you for all of this," Anders said softly. The whole thing was dazzlingly, stupendously generous, in ways that normally only existed in fairy tales. Then again, life with Hawke was often like living in a fairy tale; he was one of those just larger-than-life figures that Anders all too often found himself swept up by. "A lot of these kids were born here, or they don't remember their lives before becoming refugees. For most of them this is the first time in their lives they've had a chance to see such beauty, hear such music, or even sit down and eat a meal at a table. Your kindness has given them a memory they can treasure for the rest of their lives."  
  
He was expecting a smile for that, maybe a lumescent blush, or better yet, one of Hawke's adorable stammers. What he did not expect was what he actually got; silence, and when he glanced over at Hawke he saw tension hovering over him and a furrow of upset on his brow.  
  
"I wonder…" Hawke said. "I wonder if it really is kindness."  
  
Anders blinked, startled. "What do you mean?" he said. "Of course it is."  
  
"What I'd really like like is to give them all this forever," Hawke said lowly. "But I can't. Not all the treasure in the thaig would be enough for that. Isn't it more cruel to give it to them for one night, and then take it away? I mean, they're having fun now, but when the party is over they'll have to go back to their hovels and slums knowing that the rest of Hightown lives like this every day, and they'll never have that. I wonder if their joy tonight will turn to bitterness tomorrow." He looked out over the party, the corners of his mouth tugging down. "Isn't it kinder not to know what they can't have?"  
  
Anders took a moment to find the words. In a way, this was Hawke all over; constantly worrying over the prospect of people being hurt, whether now or in the future, always striving to make things right, always miserable and frustrated when he couldn't. "Hawke... you can't fix the whole world," he said. "No one man has that kind of power. This is an incredible gift, and everyone in this room knows it. This is a beautiful night. And yes, when it's over, there will be disappointment, and discouragement, and maybe even bitterness, but that's just part of normal human feelings. When you lose something beautiful, it hurts, but that's no reason not to create beauty in the first place.   
  
"You've reminded these people that there's another world outside of the sewers; and yes, maybe the contrast hurts, but it can also remind them that there's a hope of a better life out there for them and their children. Maybe they'll get there someday, maybe they won't, but it's always better to try." He thought back to his own years in the Circle, to Irving, convinced that everything he did was for their own good, coddled and curtailed and smothered, all choices stifled before they could be born. Thought of Karl; thought that for all the things that hurt about his death, what he regretted was not knowing him in the first place but all the feelings he'd never dared to feel, chances he'd never had to take. "It's always better to have the experience than not, better to have the chance than not, better to have the choice than not. Taking away people's choices so that they won't feel regret or disappointment may feel like a kindness, but it is the kindness of the tyrant."  
  
For a long moment Hawke didn't answer; then at last he sniffed loudly and let out a strained laugh. "When did you get so wise, Anders?" he said weakly.  
  
Anders smiled ruefully. "I have no idea, really," he said. "I guess if you make enough stupid choices in your life, at least a little bit of wisdom has to accrue just to keep the balance."  
  
They watched the party for a little longer, the glitz and glamour transforming the familiar house into something out of a fairyland. In a few hours it would be over, and they'd all have to return to the real world; but for tonight, at least, they could pretend.  
  
Hawke sniffed again, and Anders stole a sideways glance at his face and realized that he was crying, tears trickling down his face and glittering in the shimmering lights. "She's gone, Anders," Hawke said, and Anders knew he meant his mother. "This was the last thing she did in this world, the last thing she wanted. This was the last piece of her…"  
  
"I know, love," Anders said softly, and abandoned the balcony to wrap Hawke in a full-bodied hug. Hawke pressed tightly against him, his small body quaking with sniffles and sobs, warm tears seeping through the fabric of his shirt. Anders just tried to be there, and hoped it would help.  
  
At length the music beneath them changed, a stately rhythm that Anders knew, and he gave his boyfriend a nudge. "Listen, they're starting up a waltz," he said. "Dance with me, love?"  
  
Hawke pulled back, wiping his red eyes on his sleeve, and gave him a bright, wet smile. "Of course," he said, voice only a little hoarse. He reached out his hand, and Anders caught it, giving it a firm squeeze as they descended the stairs together.  
  
A small square of the floor had been cleared aside for the dancers, and Anders and Hawke fell into the one-to-three pattern of the dance, Hawke leading. On one turn they spun by Isabela embracing Merrill, the smaller elf standing on the tops of her boots and both of them laughing. On another, they saw Fenris waltzing at half-time, leading a red-headed little Darktown girl through the steps.   
  
It surprised Anders a little to think that either Isabela or Fenris would know how to ballroom dance; but then again, he supposed he shouldn't have been. After all, Isabela had been married once to a rich man; she'd learned all the lessons of high society, even if she usually scorned to use them. And Fenris would have been witness to all sorts of society events at Danarius' side.   
  
No matter what lay in their pasts, they were all here tonight. No matter what the future brought, they would always have this memory. The chance once taken, the choice once made -- there was nothing and no-one that could take that away from them.  
  
  
~end.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the story of the family whose $35,000 wedding was cancelled at the last moment, so rather than letting the reception go to waste, [they invited the city's homeless to the meal.](http://www.cnn.com/2015/10/20/us/family-feeds-homeless-after-wedding-is-called-off/)


End file.
